Anyone there write poems anymore.
Is picking up a pen a thing of lore?
Are there star accountants counting at night?
Dictating under a moon too bright.

Hands hovering  under a dim light,
Pencils swaying like a rod for a bite.
No audience pulling on your string of words with polite
No mountain of phrases on landscape of white


I know these thoughts a bit,
my own private hell.
But more horrifying than this
Is no ink in the well